It's the Thought That Counts
by L'auteure
Summary: "Santana and Karofsky are dating anyway. They might as well consummate the damn thing, right?" Santofsky friendship with side-Brittana relationship. Thanks for reading!


Title: _It's the thought that counts._

Fandom: _Glee_

Pairing: Santana/Dave friendship, side Brittany/Santana relationship

Rating: R/NC-17 (Strong language and descriptions of the nasty that range from tame to graphic)

Disclaimer: I quite literally own nothing. Especially not _Glee_. Unfortunately.

Spoilers: Let's say throughout the second season, just to be safe.

Summary: Santana and Karofsky are dating anyway. They might as well consummate the damn thing, right?

Warnings: Beard sex. Pretty awkward stuff to write about. Fair warning it's probably awkward to read, too. This was also posted sans editing. I need a beta, soon, but before that, please be patient.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You just did."

"Clever," Dave states with a grimace on his face. "What are you, thirteen?"

"Perhaps, but at least I don't have my thirteen-year-old 'baby fat.'" She punctuates this with air quotes, all the while giving him a once-over with an eyebrow cocked. "You'd think with all that running around the field you'd trim down a bit. Or are you too busy working up a sweat over Mike's washboard abs?"

Seriously, she doesn't quite know why she decided to get into this with Karofsky of all people. He certainly wasn't going to win any beauty contests anytime soon. She read somewhere that one out of every ten people are gay. So, in theory, there's got to be more than one male closet-case in this entire fucking school, right? Maybe one more attractive. She can't keep up this charade forever; _no one_ is going to believe Santana Fucking Lopez settled for someone as robust and sweaty as David Karofsky for as long as she has. Not without some ulterior motive, at least. Isn't that exactly what she has, though, an ulterior motive? Maybe she's not as mysterious as she might like to think.

Surprisingly enough, Dave decides to chuckle rather than erupt and knock her out cold. It's not that he hasn't had the absolute urge to deck her more than once, but when they're away from prying eyes, he actually calms down a mite. At least in the comfort of his room, with the door closed and his parents out shopping for furniture, he doesn't go nuts over Santana's (increasingly often) homo comments.

"For real, Santana," he says, scooching closer to her on his bed. Santana leans forward and pretends to find Megan Fox extremely interesting (hell, she's probably not pretending. But it's obvious she's not interested in spooning with the brute twice her size that hovers over her now). "Can I ask you something and you promise not to laugh?"

"Nope. I don't care how femme you are, I am not into touchy-feely girl talk."

"Can you promise not to get mad?"

"You do know who you're talking to, right?"

"Yeah, I'm gonna go for it anyway." Dave snatches the remote control from Santana's hand, which is positively dwarfed when enclosed by his own mitt.

"What the fuck, Paul Bunyan? She's about to eat the fucker's fucking heart out."

He presses the power button and tosses the remote on the carpet. "It's not the first time it's happened so far, and it's not the last. The poor dude can wait."

Santana crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against the headboard with a sigh. "Okay. What is so important that cannot wait another goddamn second?"

"I want to have sex."

There's a moment's pause for his question to really sink in. There's a bit more time as she makes a face of indistinguishable emotion, somewhere Dave would place between confusion and disgust. And there's a good couple over seconds of very, very, _very_ loud laughter before he finally gives up.

"Whatever," he huffs as he gets up from the bed and makes a move towards the door. "Forget I asked."

"No, no, no, no, no," Santana chides as she scrambles after him, a grin still playing on her lips. "Hold the fuck up, lover boy. You're not serious?" It's a question, not a statement.

"Of course I'm serious!" he snaps. His face quickly goes from red to a deep burgundy.

"But you're gay!"

"So are you! And I know for a fact you've done it with almost everyone else on the football team."

Santana rolls her eyes and turns from him, but quickly beckons with her arm for him to follow her back to the bed. "So, what," she grumbles, "Are you jealous?" She sits back and crosses her legs, stretching her arms behind her for support.

"No fucking way, Lopez. Just hear me out." Dave sits next to her, the mattress dipping significantly under his weight. But it doesn't groan like Santana's does whenever they're in her room. She's lucky, in the summer, their relationship only goes so far as to hang out maybe twice a week in the privacy of one of their bedrooms. Especially since Santana's parents would get suspicious if they actually ever caught sight of one of her boyfriends, they usually go to his house and avoid breaking her bed with their combined weight altogether. She goes to his place, says hi to his mom and dad, and they shuffle themselves upstairs. They lock the door and usually put on a movie; this is the only relationship Santana's had, though, where she actually got to watch the movie and the lock was not a necessary precaution.

"I've never been with a dude," he continues, "but I've never been with a chick either. I was thinking how I could even be sure I was really, you know—" he lowers his voice "—gay if I didn't try at least one side out?"

Dave automatically flinches and waits for the crazy ass bitch he decided to call his beard to pull those razor blades out of her weave (he's not even kidding, he's one-hundred percent sure there are razor blades in there). He waits for a slap or to be cursed out in Spanish, but he remains shockingly unharmed and with his confidence—or whatever's left of it—intact. When he reopens his eyes, Santana's looking at him, but not in the spiteful way she usually does. Her lips are pursed and her eyes are calculating.

"Yeah, why the fuck not?"

"… Wait, really?"

"Sure. But I'm telling you, Boy George, you've got to be flaming. No other guy would have to ask twice." She leans over and begins to carefully unlace her boots. "Plus, Britt Britt is on this 'no sex before dating' kick that's really been getting on my nerves. It's been, like, months. I'm going nuttier than Tom on Ellen's couch."

"Oh. Okay."

Santana stands in front of him and places her hands on her hips. "… Are you just going to look, or are you going to do something? I'm not some exhibit that you get fined for touching, or some shit like that."

"Um, yeah. Okay. Sure." Dave awkwardly puts out his hands. They hover as he decides just where he should put them, before settling them over Santana's own hands that remain resting on her hips. He looks up and tries to smile.

"Oh, God, just let me do my job." Santana slaps away his paws and pushes on his shoulder so he's lying down on the bed. She crawls up and straddles his hips, grabbing his hands and placing them on her ass.

"Oh."

"Yeah." She leans forward and pauses when her lips are within a millimeter of his. Her dark eyes are half closed, but still strikingly clear. Dave guesses what to do and puckers his lips, closing whatever space was left with a very chaste kiss. He's surprised to find that her lips remind him of Kurt's, soft and smooth and girly. If she didn't smell like Puerto Rico itself, he might actually be able to close his eyes and pretend.

But that would kind of ruin this experiment, wouldn't it?

"That's how I kiss my grandmother. And, trust me, she's like death warmed over twice. Try again." Instead of letting him lead, though, she plunges in, pushing her tongue into his mouth without a breath of warning. Dave's so surprised, he almost bites down. Luckily, for fear of the well-being of his nuts, he doesn't, and Santana takes it that he's trying to get into it. And it's the thought that counts.

He hesitantly squeezes her ass as she begins to grind on him. She responds by pulling back, and at first he's afraid he's insulted her and that she really is reaching for those damn razors. Instead, she pulls off her shirt and bra in one fell swoop. He gauges that as a good reaction, but he's grateful when she dips back in to keep kissing him. He's too shocked to handle taking in all that female at one time.

He squeezes again, harder, with a bit more confidence. When she doesn't react, he gives it a smack. At that point, she untangles her arms from behind his neck and forcibly moves his hands up her bare back. She pulls back a little bit and gives him one of her good ol', classic, should-be-patented Head Bitch In Charge smirks. "Well," she whispers, "you gave that the good old college try."

Dave doesn't have time to even formulate a reply before Santana's head is heading drastically south. He tries to sputter out an excuse or something—anything!—but soon enough they're locking eyes again as she moves back up to remove his shirt. The second the material makes it's way over his eyes, though, there she goes again. And there's no mistaking she's now expertly removing his belt.

"Santana, wait—" He's interrupted by her index finger being placed on his lips. It could be classified as cliche if Santana's eyes didn't seem to spell immediate death.

"Do you want to give this a try or not?" she asks seriously, without threat or joke in her voice. Dave nods curtly. "Then let me at it. I know what I'm doing."

He nods again and lays fully back, eyes staring at the ceiling. Down below, Santana has made short work of the belt. She tears his jeans off and, as she tucks her index fingers into either side of his striped boxer, releases the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She wonders for a moment, a fleeting moment, if this could be considered cheating. But she also muses bitterly that a) she and Britt are not dating, and b) different plumbing and all that jazz. So, Santana finally gives that final tug and—

is met with absolutely. Fucking. Nothing.

Not that Dave isn't male. No, there's more than enough proof of that from her convenient little vantage point. Everything's there and accounted for: one-eyed, four-inch monster (she would laugh if it were anyone else); apparent scrotum; abundant mess of black, curly hair and ew has he ever considered maintenance I mean really he must've known he was going to ask for sex before she came over he's either lazy, ignorant, or a combination of the two. Check, check, and check. The only thing lacking is interest, because instead of Santana almost getting her eye poked out, Dave's little Dave doesn't even wave hello.

She stands immediately and practically screams, "What the flying fuck, Karofsky!" Which accurately scares the shit out of her partner, because he shoots up and looks down as if to double check that his dick is still there.

"What! What's wrong?"

"I'll tell you what's wrong!" Santana hoarsely chokes out as she collects her shirt and bra (her lacy one, at that. See, she actually tries!). "_Orale,_ your cock is limper than the Breadstix spaghetti!"

Dave, obviously relieved, falls back and puts his hands on his face as Santana haphazardly clips her bra back in place and pulls her shirt back over. "Thank baby Jesus…"

"Yeah," she snaps as she collects her heeled boots—not bothering to slip them on—and purse. "Congratu-fucking-lations. You're gay!"

She doesn't hear Dave even try to yell after her until she's already stomping down the stairs, and at that point she's too enraptured with getting the fuck out of there to give a flying shit.

—-

When Brittany finally opens the front door, Santana has her hand raised in a fist and her eyes as wide as a deer's when caught in front of headlights.

Brittany leans against the door frame and offers the most genuine of smiles. "Hi."

Santana releases her fingers and gives a small, super awkward wave before slapping her hand back down to her side. "Hey."

"Why are you not wearing shoes?"

She looks down at her own feet, still in the black fishnet stockings, but her boots were still in the back seat of her Mustang. She looks back up and locks eyes with Brittany, shrugging stiffly. "Too mainstream for me." She waits as her best friend laughs delicately, trying to look inside the house. "Um, if you have company, I can just—" She points back to her car.

"Oh, no! No, don't leave, San. I'm babysitting, but I'm basically by myself. Come inside." She steps inside enough to let Santana in, who automatically lets her eyes roam for signs of ankle-biters.

"Where are the accidents?"

"They were not accidents, we got them from breeders very much on purpose." Brittany grabs her hand and begins to lead her back to her bedroom. "Charity is probably sleeping on the dryer, and Lord Tubbington has his fat little butt in the fridge."

Santana chuckles as she closes Brittany's bedroom door behind her. She forces down the urge to lock it, out of habit. "You're babysitting your cats?"

"Well yeah." Brittany plops herself on her bed and begins to pick at the fringe on her blanket. "My parents can't trust them alone after they used the emergency credit card in their litter box to order strippers and thirty boxes of pizza."

Santana's too tired to touch that one today. She just laughs softly and lays next to her, placing her head in her lap. Brittany absent-mindedly strokes her hair, humming as she traces her fingers from Santana's bangs down her jaw.

"Tana?" she whispers.

"Hmm?"

"You okay?"

Santana looks up and gives a smile, despite her watery eyes. "Yeah. I am now."

Brittany leans down just enough to kiss her forehead, but Santana grabs her cheeks before she can pull away.

"Maybe," she muses as she runs her thumb over Brittany's freckly cheekbone, "we can talk about that whole dating thing now."

—-

The phone buzzes loudly the pocket of Santana's skirt, now in a pile on the floor.

"Don't you dare answer that," Brittany warns huskily. She wasn't going to, but she forgets about it entirely when Brittany licks back down her thigh and dives back in tongue first.

—-

"hey"

"Hi."

"u still mad at me? im sorry really i didn't mean to insult u"

"Let's just not talk about it, okay? It's not a big deal."

"we cool?"

"Yeah, we're cool."

"okay :) am i gonna see you tomorrow then?"

"I don't think that's going to work. I talked to Britt and I'm thinking it's about time I shaved…"

"no santana im not going to ask for sex again u dont have to shave"

"No! God, no. I'm saying that I'm officially breaking up with you. Sorry."

"oh. u know i think thats okay"

"Really?"

"yep im not joining homo explosion or anything but i can make it without a girlfriend. ill just tell my parents you were a skank and i had to break up with you… :P"

"Fair enough."

"and for the future i dont think breaking up over text is exactly very polite"

"I'll see you later, Dave."

"later :)"

";)"

—-

On the first Monday back at school, David Karofsky walked in without anyone on his arm. Santana Lopez walked in with Brittany Pierce on hers. And when Santana and Dave ran into each other in homeroom, she winked. Considering that was the most affection she gave to any of her exes besides maybe Noah Puckerman, Dave considered their relationship a complete success.

He was in glee practice that Thursday.


End file.
